


Addict

by pettiot



Series: Professionals Timeline [2]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Adrenaline Junkie, ennui
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:40:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22302754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Cowley asks Macklin to join CI5 as a trainer; Macklin ponders his loss of nerve.
Series: Professionals Timeline [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600894
Kudos: 1





	Addict

Every shot fired was a little death, no matter which end of the gun.

Before Hong Kong, he hadn't noticed; too young or too numb. The weapons were not clandestine then, just a part of his uniform, prosaic, like boots, belt, shirt. SIS made an addict of him. His career progression ignored, half-formed daydreams of advancement, admiralty, a house in the country and educated children lost in immediacy of the job. In Hong Kong, he had to hide the guns, and in the hiding he learned to enjoy the consequence of revelation.

He lived a lifetime in those moments: dark alleys, cold rooftops, humidity, rubbish. He shunned the airconditioning preferred in government buildings; lived with the locals, sweated, hungered, killed. He had a reputation, unlike most, well-deserved. Now what he had was a list, flickering remembrance lit as if by scattershot.

His own revelation came belatedly, perhaps; each heartbeat skipped to kill another was one less heartbeat lived for himself. _Every shot fired was killing him._

The fear had no name, but it was as sudden and total as his retirement. His heart unquiet, the stillness forgotten, longed for, but a nirvana suddenly unreachable.

Now, in England. What is left of his dreams of advancement, admiralty, polished uniform buttons and honour, nobility, pride. More lists, disconnected. His woman in the kitchen, bare brown feet splayed with the weight of pregnancy, disposing rancid orange juice down the drain. Limp tea steeping before him, the table's lino scarred through use, chipped at the edges where he picked the colour off while reading the newspaper. The tick of the clock. There were no more bright and dirty lethal moments.

His guest, sitting opposite, ignored his own cup of tea after one polite sip acknowledging the effort.

'I appreciate your thinking of me, Major. Really, I do. But I'm not coming back to it. Not even to—' His mouth curled. _Those who cannot do, teach._ Where had his pride been hiding, all these years? 'I couldn't. You can't know what it's like.'

Cowley smiled, shifting in his chair. Leaning forward, eager, as if this denial was exactly anticipated, all going to plan.

In those dark, glittering eyes, Macklin recognised Cowley's own perfect moment: the stillness of command, the sheer rush what came from knowing the future. Not clairvoyance, but control. Having engineered circumstances to date, Cowley _knew_ the future, and even if that knowing only spanned for bare seconds, it was enough for this raging, killer joy.

'Brian,' Cowley said, warmly. 'It's going to be you.'

  



End file.
